“They had to keep the ball off the ground with their bodies, bounce it off the walls. The ball could not touch their hands or feet. And if they lost—” Jorge paused, faced Mark, and looked straight into his eyes. For effect. To make him squirm. “The penalties were rather severe.”
“Death?” Easy to guess.
“Yes,” said Jorge. “Sacrifice.”
“When you say sacrifice, do you mean . . .” Mark couldn’t complete the sentence. Did he really want to know?
“Decapitation,” said Jorge. “Or sometimes they ripped the beating hearts out of their bodies.”
Mark took a deep breath and slowly expelled the air. He’d read about it, but it was considerably different standing on the sacrificial altar. “So that must be why the Maya avoid this place. Because of the sacrifices.”
Jorge grinned. “No. It was standard practice, part of our religion in the past. Nothing to be ashamed of.”
“Then why do they avoid it?”
Jorge’s grin vanished. Was it Mark’s imagination or did a shadow of fear flit across his face?
“I will show you the temple. Perhaps you can figure it out for yourself.” Taking great strides through the center of the ball court, Jorge made for the looming structure that at first had looked like one of the hills they had traversed, but showed the unmistakable signs of human creation. Large stone blocks were arranged in step formation all the way up to the top. The frontage was slotted with rectangular openings and vaulted ceilings. Strange honeycombed slabs adorned the roof—Mark remembered reading somewhere they were called roof combs. Glyphs etched the stone just about everywhere.
Jorge led Mark up the deteriorating stairs to the peak of the pyramid. At first he pointed to hieroglyphs and motifs that looked as if they’d been recently cleared of lichen. The depictions of a large man with a feathered headdress, jaguar coat, and a quantity of jewelry stood out among the others. He dominated the scene, which included bowing figures and what appeared to be . . .
“Is this a decapitated body?” asked Mark, pointing to the figure sprawled at the man’s feet.
“Yes,” said Jorge. “The king is holding the head in his hand.”
Mark grimaced, but inspected the scene nonetheless. Vestiges of red pigment revealed where splotches of blood were painted throughout the motif. It was splattered on the wall, dripping from the head, and pooling on the ground by the body. “These ancient Maya were bloodthirsty bastards, weren’t they?”
“Blood was how they connected with the heavens and the Underworld,” said Jorge. “It was a religious rite, not a crime. It is difficult for you to understand, from your perspective.”
“Religious rite?” said Mark. “How can you appeal to the gods by killing the gods’ creation?”
“Sacrifice has always been a religious theme,” said Jorge. “It has been practiced in ancient religions since time immemorial. The ancient Jews believed in sacrifice—although they practiced it only with animals. Even Jesus sacrificed himself—and that is the key Christian theme.”
Mark opened his mouth, then shut it. This man was far more learned than a simple farmer. Or a guerrilla.
“I guess you’re right,” he said. “But you brought me up here to show me something. Something you think I should see before you guide me to the cave to rescue my wife. If that was ever your intention.”
Jorge stared at him longer than he liked.
“I will help you find your wife,” he said. “But this you must see.” He pointed to the motif. “The king is Snake Charmer. The glyph with the oblong circle with two circles above means lord and the glyph below is the infamous snake head.”
“Infamous?”
“The archaeologists have seen reference to this snake head for some time. They know it represents a city such as Tikal or Palenque, but they don’t know where it is. A mystery they have yet to solve.”
Mark felt even more bewildered. “If you knew about this city, and you knew archaeologists were searching for it, why didn’t you say anything?”
Jorge smiled. “Would I bring people to a place that is avoided at all costs?”
“At all costs?” Anger surged through him, despite the warning bells. “Yet someone brought my wife here.”
The smile evaporated. “Yes. Perhaps she insisted. No doubt it was a mistake.”
“A mistake!” Mark yelled. “What the hell is there about this place that makes it so dangerous! Tell me, or so help me . . .”
“What, doctor? You’ll kill me?” Jorge laughed. “I am the only one who can help you.”
Mark’s shoulders sagged. He was right. He couldn’t even threaten the man. All he could do was doggedly follow and hope Jorge wasn’t going to kill him.
“I don’t have to tell you,” he said quietly. “But I was going to show you.” Strangely, the cold-hearted man placed a hand on Mark’s shoulder. “Come.” He beckoned him into the temple.
Mark shook his head and followed the Maya. The air was cooler here, in the deep shadows beneath the stone walls. Distorted carvings adorned the walls, and where the pigment hadn’t been eaten away by time and the elements, there was the odd splash of color—rose, amber, yax. Jorge flicked on a flashlight and led Mark deeper into the temple. The corridor was narrow; the ceiling low-hanging—sufficient for Jorge to walk through, but Mark, with his six-foot height, had to duck and crouch. At last, after leading the way through what seemed like a labyrinth, Jorge stopped, stepped to one side, and pointed to a cleft in the floor. A stairway led down into the darkness.
“They’re down there,” he said.
A ray of hope brightened Mark’s mind. Was Kat just below him? Did the cave adjoin this Mayan temple? Jorge gave Mark the flashlight and motioned for him to lead. Mark was so buoyed by the thought of finding Kat that he didn’t pause to consider how strange this was. He raced down the uneven steps, feeling some of them crumble beneath his feet, but hardly caring. About twelve meters down, the stairs leveled off and his light flickered into a room with a layer of scattered debris on the floor. He dashed in, looking for another stairway or an opening to the cave. One part of him even thought that perhaps he’d see her red-gold hair in the ethereal wash of his light.
There was nothing, though. No doorway that he could see, no tunnel, no further stairs. Only detritus and a jumble of broken stone that looked like a collapsed wall. A loud crunch resounded from his feet as he moved farther in.
He looked down, aiming the flashlight at the ground. Scattered everywhere were broken ceramic bowls and stone figurines, jagged shards protruding from a thick layer of dust and dirt, along with something the color of ivory. Mark crouched to extricate a length of smooth enamel, then dropped it with a start.
Bone! It was bone! That’s what littered the ground. Rounded caps of skulls, various lengths of humerus and ulna, triangles of scapulae, and curved crescents of spine. This wasn’t a cave or even a temple. It was a mass grave.
Chapter Fifteen
Mark sank to the cluttered ground, unable to process the sight. The remains of literally hundreds of bodies crammed the chamber, their skeletons intertwined and contorted. Even though the flesh had long since been eaten by the processes of decomposition, a vile odor lingered—a stench of death and corruption. Black beetles scuttled over the remains, and a few flies hovered in the air, as if they could still find nourishment on the bare bones.
Why? Why had Jorge taken him to this tomb? Was he going to seal it now and bury him alive amongst the dead? Had that been his plan all along?
The idea sent lightning bolts of fear up and down his spine. To be trapped again in the unholy darkness, unable to escape. Feeling the creatures slither and swoop around him, waiting for him to die. He wheeled, his muscles bunched in order to launch up the steps, but Jorge was right behind him. His eyes were contracted in thinly disguised loathing, but he didn’t appear to be barring Mark’s way out.
“What the hell is this place?” asked Mark. “Why would you want to show me this? To freak me out?”
“If that was my intention, it looks like I succeeded,” Jorge said. “But it wasn’t. Look around and tell me what you see.”
Mark bit his lip, shook his head. “This is crazy.”
Jorge raised an eyebrow and crossed his arms.
“All right. I’ll play your game.” Mark scanned the room more thoroughly this time, taking in the sheer quantity of jumbled bones. “Bones, of course. I see skeletons of your ancestors, no doubt.”
“Not exactly my ancestors,” said Jorge. “You see, in order for them to be my ancestors, there’d have to have been survivors and descendents.”
“Are you trying to tell me there were no survivors in this city?” said Mark. “That everyone died?”
“So the legends say.”
“If there were legends, then why hasn’t anyone else heard about this city?”
“It is only whispered among my people. For many years, to speak it aloud would be to bring about the curse.”
“The curse?” asked Mark. If the Maya believed this place was cursed, then they would avoid it at all costs. They wouldn’t tell others. It would remain a mystery, except to topographic surveyors. That was the thing that disturbed him the most. Where was the flood of modern explorers?
“My people worry that they will die like the snake-head people. All at once, from a mighty swipe of God’s hand.”
“Yet you came here,” said Mark. “Obviously you don’t have the same misgivings.”
Jorge massaged his scalp, breaking Mark’s gaze and looking down instead at the heap of disintegrating bones. “I have some,” said Jorge. “But I am not as swayed by superstition as the majority of my people are.”
“That’s good to know,” said Mark, although it made him even more uneasy. What was Jorge’s motive for dragging him into this tomb?
“I have learned to look at the world a little differently,” Jorge continued. “Through the lens of logic. Yes, these people died. But was it due to a curse?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I know there is something ominous about this place. Power seems to seep from the ground. It is a place of death.”
“You talk about logic,” said Mark. “But what you just said isn’t logical. You’re still alive and you’ve been here before. These people died long ago. The past should have no bearing on the present.”
Jorge snorted. “Shouldn’t it? What a ridiculous statement. As a man of science, you should know that everything has a bearing on everything else, including the past. But despite your obvious density in this area, it is because you are a man of science that I’ve brought you here. To diagnose.” He pointed to the bodies. “How did these people die?”
Mark tilted his head and gaped at Jorge. He wanted Mark to find a cause of death for all these people? Was that what this was all about?
“I can’t diagnose the dead.”
“I think you can. And you will, for your wife’s sake. She needs help, doesn’t she?” said Jorge.
Mark clenched his jaw, anger boiling through his veins. He could see where this was headed. “Is my wife a hostage?”
“To the cave, perhaps. Now answer my questions, please.”
“Why should I?” asked Mark.
Jorge glared. His hand twitched at his holster. It was obvious that he would like nothing better than to put a bullet into Mark’s brain.
“You will help me or I will let your wife rot in the belly of the earth,” he snapped.
The bastard! Damn him. He was a puppeteer and Mark was attached to his strings. Mark closed his eyes, took a deep breath, and flashed them open again.
“All right. I’ll see what I can do. But I’m not a forensic anthropologist. I can’t find a cause of death just by looking at a pile of bones.”
“Speculate,” said Jorge.
Mark nodded, knelt down, and examined the fragile bones at his feet. The bodies were all positioned next to each other instead of on top, so they hadn’t been thrown here after death, but had died where they lay. The skeletons were arched like gymnasts, as if writhing in pain. If it had been something sudden, or cataclysmic, like with the victims of a volcanic eruption, they would have been going about their daily lives and died where they were working or playing. This mass congregation of dead didn’t look like that. Also, there were children—smaller bones and skulls—among the corpses. Whatever had killed them didn’t seem to discriminate among age groups. Finally, there didn’t appear to be any weapons among the debris—no knives or spears. This wasn’t a mass murder.
“I don’t know,” he said, standing up again, to the pop of his protesting knees. “Not murder. Could have been mass suicide. Maybe gas.”
Jorge raised his brows.
“Volcanic gas, if it seeps into an enclosed area, can be deadly. You have volcanoes around here, quite close, from what I’ve seen. Could have been a virus, too, like Ebola.”
“There is no Ebola in Mexico.”
“No, not now, anyway. But maybe a thousand years ago there was something like it. Or some other plague. Europe was swept by the bubonic plague in the 14th century. There’s no way I can give you any more information without a lab and some diligent forensic investigators.”
If looks could kill, well, Jorge would have . . . But what did Mark expect, anyway? He could have lied, made something up, but instead he’d given Jorge an honest assessment.
“Well,” said Jorge. “If that’s all you can tell me.”
“Yes. That’s all. Except . . .”
“Except?”
“It wasn’t a curse.”
“Maybe,” said Jorge. “But you haven’t shown me that it wasn’t, so I’m not about to discount that theory either.”
“Suit yourself,” said Mark, shrugging. “Now, can you please take me to the cave?”
Jorge scowled, but turned to head back toward the sculpted steps. Mark whisked the flashlight around the room one more time, taking in the ancient scene of raking fingers, arching bodies, and gnashing teeth. He imagined, if their bodies still had flesh, this was what the battlefield had looked like the morning after Alexander the Great had swept up another nation. Or the tomb beneath the rubble of the World Trade Center. So much of history was a monument to death.
He shook his head and turned away, but as he took his first step toward the stairwell, a rumble sounded deep within the earth.
Chapter Sixteen
Kat could hear Ray puffing his way through the tunnel behind her.
“Don’t come too close,” she called. “It’s awfully tight. If both of us get stuck, we’re finished, and so are Megan and Pete.”
“How tight?” he asked.
“I don’t know, thirty-five centimeters or so.”
“Maudit! What were you thinking?”
“I was thinking I could get out of here. I’ve been in wormholes before. Maybe I pushed it with this one, but our survival depends on us finding a way out.”
She could hear him grunt as he squeezed toward her. “Nobody’s going to survive if you get into a Floyd jam. You could have backed out when it got too tight, and we could have looked for another way. This is a huge cavern, trés grand.”
“With no other air flow we’ve found except from this tunnel. This is our best hope.”
“Was,” said Ray matter-of-factly. “I cannot reach your feet.”
“Don’t try.” This was hopeless. Her chest was starting to hurt from pressing against the rock as she struggled to take shallow breaths. Talking wasn’t helping. “You might have to tow me out with the rope.”
“How bad would that be?”
He knew. He didn’t want to do it.
“Bad,” said Kat. “My shoulder’s sort of jammed under an overhang. It might dislocate.”
“Merde! This is ridiculous. If you’re injured—”
“I know,” said Kat. “We don’t have two hundred cavers around to haul me out.” That was what it had taken the time she’d broken her leg. And they were much farther down now. “Just try a gentle nudge and I’ll see if I can shimmy
loose.”
A muffled grunt came from behind and the tension increased on the rope. At the same time she exhaled and began to agitate backwards. But her shoulder wasn’t coming along, and a hot flash of pain seared upwards as she felt the bone begin to shift.
“Stop,” she shrieked, and the rope eased. Scooting a little forward relieved the bowing of her clavicle. “It’s no use.”
Ray began swearing and slapping his palms on the rock.
“That’s not helping,” said Kat, tears creeping into her eyes.
“Well, what would help, Katrina?” he shouted. “I can’t leave you here. Maybe if we had some grease or butter, but you said we didn’t need butter, right?”
“That wouldn’t do the trick anyway. You’d never get it to me, and I can’t move enough to coat myself with it.”
“I’m going to have to wrench your shoulder.”
“No.”
“Kat, you’re being unreasonable.”
“It’s unreasonable to want to keep my climbing arm?”
“It’s unreasonable to remain stuck in order to keep your climbing arm. How long before you start dying of thirst?”
“I might have fourteen days.”
“Unlikely, after exerting yourself. And I don’t think I can reach the surface, assuming I find an exit, and get back here with a rescue team in fourteen days.”
Kat rested her head against the rock and chewed on her lip. Did it really matter? She was dying anyway, so what was a little dislocated shoulder? She was worried about the team; that was the problem. If she couldn’t climb, it would be up to Ray to get them to the surface. Would he willingly leave her at the first ascension? He’d have to. She’d have to convince him. Maybe she’d have to tell him the truth.
She closed her eyes.
“Okay,” she called. “Do it.”
Ray’s voice faltered as he asked, “Are y-you sure?”
He didn’t want to cause her pain any more than she wanted him to.
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